


Manic Pixie Dream Boy

by consumptive_sphinx



Series: Weave me the sunshine [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, In other words Thranduil looks fanon in the face and laughs, M/M, Stereotype subversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celeborn has no idea what he's getting himself into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil doesn't seem anything like the elves of Doriath. Celeborn isn't quite sure he's anything like the elves of Lindon either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my younger brother's birthday. 
> 
> I've gotten him to ship slash — so proud!

They're just outside the palace in Lindon. Celeborn, Prince of Doriath, is not quite sure what to do with Thranduil, the son of a Lindon noble. He doesn't seem anything like the elves of Doriath. Celeborn isn't quite sure he's anything like the elves of Lindon either. 

But their fathers dumped them together and told them to get along, so Celeborn is polite. "Hello, he says. "My name is Celeborn, son of Celebros, Prince of Doriath." He keeps his voice polite with a touch of friendliness, shutting emotion out; it's his Diplomat Voice. Impenetrable as mithril walls, exactly how he likes it. 

"I'm Thranduil," the smaller boy chirps, "you already know my father's name," and Celeborn does, it's Oropher, but hasn't this elf learned manners? "and I'm not the Prince of anything," like Celeborn didn't know that. Thranduil's voice is oddly high-pitched, like a small child's, and he speaks very quickly. 

Celeborn is silent: if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Thranduil is looking at him as if he's very odd, but Celeborn is polite enough not to do the same. 

"So what do you enjoy?" Thranduil asks. It takes Celeborn a moment to realize that he doesn't know. 

But that sounds pathetic, so he scrounges up something different to say. "I sit on councils a lot. Politics is interesting."

Thranduil nods thoughtfully, but he's staring out at the courtyard. "I'm sure it is. But that wasn't my question. What do you enjoy? What do you do when nobody tells you to?"

That's the thing. Celeborn devotes his spare time to studying, and he has no idea what he'd do if he had no obligations. He doesn't say as much, but the distinctly unregal manner in which his shoulders curl forward communicates the thought. 

What is wrong with him? Every wall Celeborn has put up, built to withstand the harshest of emotional storms, is crumbling down with no more than a push from this strange, small, pixie-like boy. They haven't yet spent ten minutes together and Celeborn has shown Thranduil more of himself than he's shown people he's known for centuries. 

"I don't know," he finally says, because he feels more in control if he says it than if he lets Thranduil guess. 

"That's sad." Quiet and solemn, things he hadn't thought Thranduil could be, but simply put and simply worded. It captures the boy perfectly.

He'd never thought of it that way: lessons are interesting, duties are necessary, tutoring his cousin in history was his own idea, and studying is a quiet escape. 

But now that Thranduil's said it - yes. It is sad that he has no idea what it is that he loves. 

They're quiet. Celeborn studies his shoes. 

"You're beautiful, did you know?" Thranduil says this conversationally, as if it's nothing odd. 

Celeborn looks up, surprised. "No, I'm not." If anything, Thranduil is beautiful, with his slender frame and delicate features and golden hair and eyes that don't hold any particular color, only light. Celeborn is broader, with dull white hair and eyes an uncomplicated blue. 

And he is not beautiful - at least, Celeborn has never thought of himself as such.

"Yes," Thranduil says impatiently, "you are. Now stop it and look at me."

Celeborn isn't sure what is meant by 'it,' but he is more than happy to look up at Thranduil. 

The pixie places a hand on the back of his neck, pulls him forward, and kisses him. Celeborn's hands shoot to Thranduil's hips, holding him closer as he returns the kiss eagerly. 

When they seperate, Thranduil is panting. His smile is just as beautiful as the rest of him. 

"Want to go have an adventure?" he asks. 

Celeborn smiles back. "I'd love to," he says, and starts running.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their welcome into the Greenwood is warm but not grand. His councillor Silinde and The Boys seem surprised by this, but Celeborn isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic started out pure fluff. Apparently it didn't stay that way for long.

Their welcome into the Greenwood is warm but not grand. His councillor Silinde and The Boys seem surprised by this, but Celeborn isn't; Thranduil never treats guests like they're visiting diplomats, even when they actually are visiting diplomats, and Celeborn especially has always been greeted as a friend.

Galion's smile is warm and infectious, and Celeborn can't help but smile back. "Welcome," the Silvan says quietly, the words clearly meant for him alone. "Our King has missed you."

"I have missed him too," Celeborn says in the same tone, and knows it's a vast understatement.

=+=+=+=

Thranduil is almost as Celeborn remembers him.

He remembers a small, smiling child, and sees a small, smiling adult. He remembers wide, shining eyes and a bright voice, and he sees eyes that still do shine.

But the Thranduil that Celeborn remembers would have thrown his arms around his friend, would have stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, would have dragged him off on some Wacky Adventure (tm) and never let him go.

And this Thranduil — doesn't.

Instead he restrains himself to that warm, open smile and an outstretched hand. Celeborn swallows his fear for his friend and presses his wrist to Thranduil's, smiling back and going through the proper greetings that Thranduil would normally have no patience for.

They're together, at least for a while. Celeborn will talk to him.

=+=+=+=

Before they next see the elves of the Greenwood, Celeborn talks to the older of The Boys.

Well, really he talks to both of The Boys, as they're unseperable. But the one who appears older also seems to be the more confident of them, so he speaks mainly to him.

"Do you and your brother have names?" Celeborn asks. He pitches his voice low and soft, and he's sitting with them on the floor, but the younger one curls in on himself and moves away from him anyway.

The older pauses, and shakes his head.

_Well, I suppose talking was too much to hope for._

"All right. Is there anything you'd like to go by, for now?" This time, it's the younger one who responds — _success!_ — but not with speech, just with lowered eyes and a shaken head.

Celeborn sighs. "Well, I need to call you something. I can…" How is he going to do this? "I can go through a list of names, and you can nod when I get to one you like."

This could take a while. Celeborn mentally checks his schedule and, assured that he isn't doing anything with the rest of his night, starts listing.

=+=+=+=

The older of The Boys has been named Orophin. The younger is Rúmil. It took an hour and a half to find names for the two of them, and another to coax them into trusting some food. They still won't speak out loud, and Celeborn's starting to worry that their vocal cords are damaged.

He wonders for a moment why he didn't get somebody else to do this.

=+=+=+=

He knows the answer.

He didn't get somebody else to do this because they were elves lost and hungry in a human city, and elves look out for their own. Because he misses Brí, now that she lives in Imladris, and they were someone that he could take care of. Because Orophin looked up at him and all he could see was golden hair and shining eyes, and for a moment the starving child on the streets looked just like Thranduil.

He doesn't admit it, not to anybody else. He barely even admits it to himself. But he knows.

=+=+=+=

"Something is wrong."

It's very clearly Not A Question. Celeborn phrased it that way on purpose.

"Nothing is wrong."

It's also not a question. But the inflection is such that it is far from certain.

Celeborn reaches out, but doesn't touch him. "Something is wrong," he repeats. "Tell me."

Thranduil's eyes flutter shut. "I can't."

Celeborn's hand shakes, nearly imperceptibly. He doesn't remove it. His friend needs him.

"I can't do this. I can't rule a kingdom." Thranduil takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues. "I have hundreds of people whose lives are in my hands. And not ten years ago, I thought it would be a good idea to domesticate giant spiders."

Celeborn's first thought is: Seriously?

But that just proves Thranduil's point, he supposes.

"Not all of your ideas are going to be good ones," he says, and pauses. What on Arda is he going to say? "But you have ideas, and some will work. As for the ones that won't — you have Galion, who is quite possibly the most sensible elf I've ever known. You don't have to be sensible with him." It's probably in everybody's best interest if he isn't, in fact, but Celeborn doesn't say that.

Thranduil doesn't react, or at least, he doesn't seem to. Celeborn leaves him alone for now; Thranduil has never liked people seeing him cry.

=+=+=+=

Orophin and Rúmil have started to trust palace food, or perhaps their hunger has finally won out.

Either way they're eating enough that Celeborn can no longer count their ribs. He thanks Eönwë and gives them as much food as they want.

=+=+=+=

Thranduil is acting odd again the next day, by which Celeborn means that most people would consider his behavior normal.

He's starting to get seriously worried.

=+=+=+=

It's a coincidence when they meet in the hallway, but a well-timed one.

Thranduil's muscles tense when Celeborn's arms wrap around his waist, large hands settling in the space between his shoulderblades.

"You don't have to do this alone," Celeborn whispers, and Thranduil relaxes into his touch, giving up the act that he doesn't need the comfort; Celeborn is suddenly holding up 85 pounds of crying elf, and he's not really sure what he's supposed to do.

He's held axes heavier than Thranduil, though, and carrying the elf back to his rooms is simple. Orophin and Rúmil will ask questions, but he doesn't think about that now.

=+=+=+=

Thranduil has so much light in him. It's dimmed now, but it's still there, still shining.

Celeborn never wants to find out what it would take to extinguish that light.


End file.
